Sleep
by Polodo
Summary: It was all over. Bonvilain was dead, Conor was reunited with his family, and all was well. Now if only he could get some sleep... One-shot


**Hey all. I liked the book so here's a fanfiction**. **Enjoy...**

**Okay, that's a lame intro, but I really don't feel all that energetic right now, so here you go...**

* * *

It was all over. Bonvilian was jailed in Great Britain for his crimes against the Saltee Islands, the Conor Broekhart everyone used to know had risen from the dead, and undisputed peace had been restored over the nation.

And all Conor wanted was a nap.

Sure, the adrenaline of constantly maintaining a pulse in the heat of battle had kept him going, but now that his life wasn't on the line, he was dead tired. The burden of staying up all night before with excessive checks on his equipment, as well as all the fancy acrobatics of putting on his glider inside a burning motor-powered flight machine, and even meeting his old life had made it a wonder that he was still standing now.

So he snuck off to go to bed. He knew the castle like it was home because, well, it _was_ home. But before he could leave the hall, he heard his mother's voice call out, "Just where do you think _you're_ going, Sir Airman?"

Conor sighed; he'd forgotten that it was also their first time seeing him as well. He decided to be blunt about it. "I'm going to bed, mother."

She gasped, "At a time like this, what, with all of this commotion in the air? What kind of a hero are you?"

He yawned, "A tired one."

Isabella, putting down the blade she never needed to use, muttered aloud, "You should be hung for such words. And now that I'm queen, I do believe that it will be much easier to accomplish as well."

Conor groaned as quietly as he could. Now he had two people on his case. It didn't help when his dad added in, "In plus, my boy, you haven't told me anything of your flying contraptions, especially the one that flew with a motor. How'd you manage that?"

He sighed. Sixteen-year-old boys really weren't meant to stay awake for more than thirty hours, yet he doubted his immediate escape. _Oh well, Conor_, he thought to himself. _You finally reunited with your family, time to face the consequences._

So he turned around to talk to his family. Or at least, he tried to, but he didn't dare try to top the three voices already competing for his attention. It seemed that in the rush to get the teen's attention, mother father and best friend forgot to keep their manners in check and were just spouting whatever they wanted. Such was the next few minutes of Conor Broekhart's life, as his eyes slowly drifted closed…

Of course, the inevitable "You're not getting away that easily!" was heard from Queen Isabella as she shook him. "C'mon, can't you tell us a little about what happened in Little Saltee?"

"Don't remind me of that place," Connor wearily moaned.

"Yeah," he heard his father back him up. "Places that bring up bad memories wouldn't be good for him right now, especially in his weakened state. Instead, he should tell us about things that bring up happier memories, like the motor-powered plane he arrived in. That's bound to bring up glorious recollections of design and flight. So, what d'ya say, Conor?"

"But I don't want to talk about that either, Dad."

"Nonsense! That's just the fatigue in you talking."

"And frankly, I agree with it," Conor grumbled, then went off to the stairs.

"Well, if that's how you're gonna talk, then I guess you'll have to earn your rest." Declan jumped in front of the tired boy and threw him a foil.

_Seriously, how come it's my family that challenges you to a duel to earn your right to sleep,_ Conor internally complained as he readied his stance for the war veteran's attack.

And so the two went into combat, Declan Broekhart asking his son during the duel about his last two years and Conor constantly replying with groans of "I'll tell you in the morning." In Conor's defense, he was still a grand fighter even in his drowsy state, deftly evading and parrying his father's lunges. In his dad's defense, he was going a tad easy. Not enough to make a difference, but enough so that he wouldn't feel bad if he lost. He could just blame it on the fact that he didn't want to humiliate his son as soon as he came home. Which he completely wanted to do, but Catherine didn't need to know that.

After two minute's time, Conor had found a hole in his father's parry and capitalized on it, striking a winning blow on his opponent. Rather than waste a second in victory cheer, though, he went to bed immediately.

"Well," Declan said to the remaining people in the room. "Fair is fair, I guess. Let the kid rest. It's been a long day for everyone."

But the women in the room weren't so forgiving in the matter. "He barely gave me the time of day just now. Even when I'm the queen _and _I helped save his life. His hanging shall be arranged quite quickly," complained Isabella.

He chuckled. "Don't forget it was _your_ life that was saved, Isabella. And don't worry; you can reaffirm each other's undying love for each other in the morning, because it's been a long day for everyone here. Just go to bed."

The young queen smiled. "I suppose so, Sir Broekhart. If that's the case, I bid you goodnight."

"Spare the fancy, talk; it's Declan."

Isabella was already upstairs by the time he said that, off to wonderland. So Declan turned to his wife, and offered, "Our bed is getting quite lonely. It'd be a shame to make it suffer longer."

"Yes, let's."

The couple went to their bed and laid down on the bed, and had some small talk. But it wasn't long before the captain's wife was fast asleep. And so he laid down in the bed, just thinking happy thoughts. As he felt his eyes drift off to dreamland, he chuckled soundlessly.

_Conor was right; all one could really want is sleep…_

* * *

**...yeah, that wasn't my best work. But I'll just blame it on not knowing the fandom well. No one needs to know :P**_  
_

**Anyways, I hope you enjoyed this short little one-shot and have a good day!**


End file.
